


Fourty-two Weeks

by Eudoxia



Category: Doctor Who, Torchwood
Genre: Drug Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, M/M, Year That Never Was, character death (but not really), master being a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 09:03:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eudoxia/pseuds/Eudoxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master wants to twist Jack's soul into something vaguely resembling his own and he's going to do that by destroying everything the immortal loves. Slowly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fourty-two Weeks

**Author's Note:**

> This is a relic from my ff.net days. Also un-beta'ed, so don't hate for mistakes.

**Fourty-two weeks**

 

Fourty-two weeks. Fourty-two weeks of torture, in so many different varieties. Fourty-two weeks of Time Lord induced hell. …About. Give or take a day. Jack couldn’t remember too well, all the time that was passing seemed to blend together. All he knew was that the magic number had arrived again and he just wished he could die. The captive snorted. “‘Answer to life, the universe, and everything’ my ass,” he spit bitterly, eyes tracing the square paneling of the ground.

 

“You know, I’ve never liked that book. Got it all wrong.”

 

Jack’s eyes snapped up in a glare and he suppressed a growl.

 

“Or something like that, I don’t very much care now.”

 

“What do you want, Saxon?”

 

The Master smirked and mirth entered his eyes, “I’ve brought you a present, my fine feathered _freak_.” He snapped his fingers and seven armed guards brought in four people, faces covered with black bags. They were clothed black long sleeve shirts under grey medical scrubs; arms tied behind their backs were you couldn’t see skin tone. Jack had the dreadful feeling he knew who they were.

 

“Now,” the Master smiled, admiring the adults, “kneel.” The four were forced to the floor hands on their shoulders from the guards. “You’re job Jack, is to choose one.”

 

Jack stared; the two in the middle were clearly Tosh and Gwen, their breasts pushing the shirts forward. The woman on the left sat up, ramrod straight and the woman on the right was hunched and shaking. Left was most likely Gwen, defiant till the end. Right was Tosh, mind most likely swarming with past memories of the camp she was held at, hoping it wouldn’t happen again. The one on Gwen’s right sat back slightly, as if leaning back to stare at the ceiling. On Tosh’s left, the figure was hunched, breathing making his chest rise and fall quickly. Next to Gwen was most likely Owen trying to calm himself by imagining the situation was far less than it was, and the last was Ianto, his own mind working through horrible memories of Canary Wharf. This given that the four people sat in front of him was, in fact, his team. It would fit the Master to grab four people off the street to torment him.

 

“No,” Jack said, his voice hard and glare even harder.

 

The Master hummed, his eyes returning to the new captives, “Well, that takes some of the fun out of things.” He crossed his arms and rubbed at his chin in an over-stated show of consideration. “I know!” he whipped back around to Jack and smiled. “That one,” he pointed, not looking where he aimed. “Kill it.”

 

It was Gwen. Jacks eyes widened, “NO!” he yelled heart stopping as the bang of the gun sounded. The body fell to the ground. The former Time Agent stared at her, his mind reeling.

 

The Master bounded over and tugged the bloodied bag from her head. Her black hair pooled on the floor, eyes wide with fear, a black gag fitted in her mouth and tied behind her head.

 

“Gwen,” Jack breathed, still feeling the shock of having failed yet another precious person in his life.

 

“Pick again,” the Master ordered.

 

Jack finally tore is eyes from Gwen’s lifeless form and glowered, “I’d rather die.”

 

“That can be arranged.” The Master pulled a gun from somewhere and another explosion filled the room. “I’ve always wanted to say that.” 

 

The Master eyed Jack’s corpse and turned back to the remaining members of Torchwood Three. “Take the bags off.” He stared at their faces as they took in their surroundings. They couldn’t speak through the gags but the Time Lord was delighted to see the rage and fear on their faces. “Hmm… brilliant. You, next to the dead one, your Ianto Jones, right?” He turned to his guards, “Get him out of here, to the infirmary: I’ll play with him later.”

 

**Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks.**

Jack gasped back into existence. After glancing around, he went back to surveying the usual square of floor paneling he aimlessly surveyed. In the week since his team had arrived, he’d watched Gwen get shot, Tosh poisoned by a voice active syringe gun (attuned to Jack’s own voice), and Owen had been chained up like Jack, right next to him, and carved up by the Master, all despite Jack’s attempts to save them. Screaming, yelling, kicking; all failures against the Master. He was swamped by guilt and self-loathing and failed to notice the light tapping sound that filled the room.

 

It was the sound of the drums.

 

Ianto sat cross-legged on the cold floor. Bare footed, grey medical trouser scrubs, and topless; he looked emaciated yet his skin was flushed. Jack noted the red Swiss Army knife in his right hand; open and bloodied, tapping out the tune on the floor. His left arm, up to his shoulder was covered in blood, both old and new. Ianto’s eyes were closed, his head rocking with the drums and a hand-rolled joint held between his lips.

 

“Ianto…” Jack breathed as his heart wrenched, wondering how soon he’d be killed.

 

Ianto’s eyes fluttered open and he smiled. He reached with his bloodied arm and pulled the joint from his mouth. “Hello, Sir.”

 

“Ianto… you’re high?”

 

“Yep,” Ianto said as he took another hit.

 

Jack’s eyes refocused on the ground, realization hitting him hard, “I’m going to have to watch you overdose.”

 

“Nope.”

 

His eyes snapped back to Ianto. “What do you mean?”

 

Ianto shrugged, “I don’t know what Master’s whole plan is,”—Jack flinched as Ianto calmly referred to the psychotic Time Lord—“but I think some of it is for you to watch me slowly succumb to drugs.” The Welshman flicked the ash away. He pulled his eyes up to Jack’s, they were clamped closed and his face turned away in pain.

 

“That bastard.”

 

“Yep,” Ianto replied as the clicking of the knife stopped. The joint was held in his mouth as he continued talking. “He told me to tell you what happened after our trip to the Himalayas.” He took the blade and found a clear spot on the back of his upper arm. “It’s not much of anything, really, but we were in the Himalayas, north India and all that. Goose chase, you know?”

 

Suddenly, Jack yelled, “Ianto! What are you doing? Stop it!”

 

Ianto looked up from where his knife was buried in his arm. “What?” he looked back to his arm, “It’s fine, I can’t feel it. Heroin; gets metabolized by the liver and turns in to morphine. Not to mention that I’ve got this,” Ianto reached up and pulled the joint from his lips. “Kinda thirsty …and hungry though.”

 

When Ianto looked back to Jack wasn’t looking anywhere near him. His eyes were on the ground, tears about to brim over. The Welshman tipped his head to the side and got clumsily to his feet. “Jack.”

 

The former Time Agent finally looked back to his… lover… boyfriend… sex buddy. He was walking over, flipping the knife closed against his thigh and grabbing Jack’s head in his hands. “Oi, I’ve here two weeks, drugged out of my mind, least you can do is look at me before I think I can fly and jump off a cliff.”

 

Jack’s eyes snapped back to Ianto’s face, “Don’t say things like that.”

 

Ianto smirked and raised a hand to remove the joint before replacing his hand on the side of Jack’s head, keeping their eyes locked. “Himalayas,” Ianto continued after Jack nodded. “We realized pretty quick it was a trap so we got the hell outta there, but getting all the way out was what tripped us up, considering travel’s illegal now. Anyway,” Ianto took another drag, the smoke leaking out as he spoke. “We managed to get to Italy before we were even spotted by the Toclafane. They left us alone after some brilliant lines from Owen. We’d just crossed into France when we got picked up by the Toclafane. They were under new orders: ‘Find Torchwood Three and bring them to the Valiant’. And so they did. Owen and I were taken to the infirmary and, well, he didn’t respond so well to the drugs, jitters and stuff…”

 

Jack had closed his eyes again, trying to shut everything out because if he hadn’t left then they never would have ended up in the year 100 trillion, Martha never would have convinced the Master to reopen his watch, Harold Saxon wouldn’t exist, and his team wouldn’t be dead.

 

But he needed answers. Needed to know if he was stuck like this or if he’d die eventually. He _had_ to. Because… what if his deaths were numbered?

 

“I understand.”

 

“What?” The immortal snapped his eyes back open and he stared at Ianto’s relaxed face.

 

Ianto’s eyes opened lethargically and he gave a leering smile. “You’d mumbled it all to yourself,” and he pressed his lips into Jack’s.

 

“Just to clarify,” Jack spoke after Ianto pulled away, “how long have you been here?”

 

“Two weeks.”

 

Jack glanced around the room. “You don’t have a guard,” he suddenly realized.

 

Ianto nodded, “Drugged out of my mind, not much I can do.” He wrapped his arms loosely around Jack’s shoulders, “Pretty much do what I want, long as my pupils are greater than seventy-five millimeters.”

 

Jack whimpered and lowered his head onto Ianto’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “What I’ve put you through…” Jack trailed off, finally seeing what Ianto had carved into his flesh. “Wh-what have you done to yourself?”

 

At first he thought they were just lines, but no, not just; the lines had curves, curves that formed shapes, shapes that formed letters, letters that formed a word, a word repeated over and over and over on Ianto’s beautiful skin. A word that read, ‘JACK’.

 

“Oh, God.”

 

**Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks.**

 

Ianto pulled back to look at Jack and then followed his gaze to his arm.

 

Ianto smiled, “The Master told me to write love on my skin. Do you like it?”

 

“Ianto,” Jack’s voice wobbled, “you can’t do this to yourself.” If the man could move his arms, his hands would be holding Ianto’s face gently. “Please don’t do this to yourself.”

 

“I have to.”

 

“Why?”

 

The Welshman slowly stepped back (while taking a hit) and held his injured arm in his other hand, head bowed. “If I stop, the Master will come back to you, evisceration and stuff…”

 

“And,” Jack continued, voicing the unsaid, “you’ll get your drugs taken away.”

 

Ianto didn’t look up as he fled the room but he did mumble a feeble, “I’m sorry.”

 

**Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks.**

The Doctor’s eyes widened as he crawled from his tent, for crouching just beyond his food bowl, was a man he hadn’t seen before. Said man had his whole left arm bandaged and some of his shoulder.

 

“Who are you?” the old Time Lord asked as he crossed his legs on the floor.

 

“Jones, Ianto Jones. I have a question for you.”

 

The Doctor raised an eyebrow, “What is it?”

 

“The Paradox machine. If it’s destroyed, the time will reset itself to a point moments before the paradox opened, right?”

 

The Doctor thought a moment at why this stranger would ask a question such as that.

 

Ianto, sensing a slight apprehension, explained, “I work—work _ed_ with Jack. In Torchwood Three.”

 

 “Ah,” the Doctor nodded. “I’m sorry about…”

 

“I know.”

 

“Yes, it should reset.” But then again, why would the last surviving _non_ -deathless member of Torchwood Three want to know about something like a paradox machine? “What are you planning? Why do you want to know?”

 

“Nothing. And I want to know… because Jack doesn’t want me like this.” And Ianto stood and walked off without another word.

 

**Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks.**

 

“You know what’s really gross?” Ianto asked between gasps and hisses of pain. He wasn’t quite so high today. “Cheetos. They just get that orange crap everywhere and they stick to your teeth and uhg!” He stopped cutting to shiver, the blade moving away from his abdominals. “So gross! Ya’know? But they’re _sooo_ good when you’re so high and they’re all you can find. Ya’know?”

 

Jack stared intently at his usual square of floor, tears rolling freely from his cheeks. “No,” he murmured so quietly it was almost lost in the dirty room. “I don’t.” He spared a glance at the young man lying on the dingy floor; Ianto’s entire torso was covered in the gauze strips, ending with his ribcage. “Why do you have to do that here?” Jack whispered exhaustedly.

 

“I have to,” Ianto sat up, the blade flipped closed and placed in his pocket. He rested his forearms in his knees.

 

Jack watched as the blood ran down from the curve of a ‘J’ and was absorbed into the waistband of his trousers. “No, you don’t.” It wasn’t the first time in the last couple weeks that the former Time Agent tried to dissuade the young man from what the Master said he needed to do. “You don’t need to do this. I can take care of myself. Saxon doesn’t know who he’s up against.” He tried for a snarky smile and didn’t even fool himself.

 

“I don’t want him to hurt you.”

 

“Ianto, when was the last time you were sober?” The accusation was thick; Ianto wasn’t doing this for Jack, he was doing this for the drugs.

 

Ianto, however, pursed his lips and glared. “I get sober, and you die, again and again and again. And I don’t care what you say; I don’t want that happening to you.”

 

“You’re not doing this for me!” His chains rattled violently, “Don’t you _dare_ say this is for me! This is for the drugs!”

 

“AND YOU THINK THAT’S _MY_ FAULT?! You think I _wanted_ to be so high _all the time_ that I can’t tell up from _down_ anymore?!” Jumping up, Ianto looked like he wanted to punch Jack, but instead fled from the room.

 

The chains rattled gently in the swift silence. Jack suddenly realized, quite frustratingly, that none of this was Ianto’s fault. He didn’t shove that first needle into his arm. He didn’t hunt for a blade. He didn’t find the thought of mutilating himself all that grand (not at first at least). No… No, this was all the Master’s fault. Saxon dragged Ianto into all this, dragged tons of innocent people into this big fucking mess. Saxon probably also pulled the tourniquet tight over Ianto’s bicep, found the vein and pushed the plunger.

 

And Jack just blamed Ianto for it.

 

“Fuck.”

 

And Jack just drove Ianto from the room.

 

“Fuck!”

 

And Jack just eliminated the inane ramblings that meant Ianto was still alive.

 

“FUCK!”

 

The chains rattled deafeningly.

 

**Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks.**

 

The Doctor looked up as he sensed a presence stopping before him. It was Jones, Ianto Jones.

 

“Once the paradox is reset, the whole world goes back to normal, right?”

 

“What’s wrong?” The Doctor asked instead. The tears blurring his dilated pupils concerned the old Time Lord.

 

“Nothing. Answer the question.”

 

Still not convinced the acquiescing, the Doctor said, “Yes, you asked bef—”

 

“But what about the people at the epicenter? Will they be run back, too?”

 

Urgent, that’s what Ianto was, the Doctor realized. “No,” the man shook his head, “most likely not.”

 

“Is that if they’ve ever been in the epicenter, or if they’re only in the epicenter when the paradox ends?”

 

“You’re planning something. What is it?”

 

Ianto worked his jaw. “Rewound in the epicenter or not?”

 

“Only if you tell me what you’re planning.”

 

“…Ask Jack about Rhys and the Rift. Please.”

 

Still with a calculating look the Doctor answered, “No. For people actually _in_ the epicenter, they’d still have these past eleven months.”

 

Ianto’s face hardened, he straightened up and turned to leave.

 

“Wait,” the Doctor reached out and caught Ianto’s wrist. “You’re not planning what I think you’re planning.”

 

The Welshman tipped his head to hide his eyes. “I’d rather have love rule my decisions than diacetylmorphine or cannabis.”

 

“Don’t do this.”

 

Ianto smiled sadly. “I’m building a tolerance, how long until the Master asks more than just my blood for the drugs? When you fix this and if I’m still here, I’ll still be like this. I don’t want Jack to look at my skin and see these,” he began removing the bandages, “or touch me and feel the scars, the reminders of what I was.

 

“Even if I get sober, I don’t want to have to hear that voice in the back of my head, telling me to fill a need that nothing else can. I know Jack will remember these, but if they never really happened, then maybe that will be better.

 

“He knows that I don’t carve half of these for him anymore, but I want to rid myself of these scars and the addiction for him… And I’ll never even remember them.”

 

The Doctor stared at the ‘JACK’s running up and down and across the young man’s arm, shoulders, chest, and bloodied abs; scabbed over, welting, and clotting. “What if we don’t succeed?”

 

Ianto’s reply was instantaneous. “You’re the fabled Doctor. There’s nothing you can’t do. I have faith.”

 

The Doctor’s eyes begged, ‘Why? Why such faith?’

 

“Ianto!” A cheery voice called from the entryway. “I’ve heard you wanted to speak with me!”

 

The Doctor quieted as the Master made his way over. “How are you, Doctor?” the other Time Lord asked, placing a hand on the old Time Lord’s shoulder.

 

Quietly, “I have one thing to say to you.”

 

“Ah,” the Master shrugged indifferently. “It can wait till later!” He smiled, wrapping an arm around Ianto, “We haves things to discuss.” And they walked off.

 

**Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks.**

 

Jack’s eyes snapped open and he quickly scanned the room. Ianto was standing, somewhat nervously, right in front of him, the Master and some of his guards in a corner.

 

Moving back to Ianto, Jack scanned Ianto’s slightly enflamed skin. The man was sweating and twitchy, Jack noticed. His eyes snapped quickly to Ianto’s.

 

“You’re sober,” he muttered disbelievingly.

 

“Yes,” Ianto nodded.

 

“Right!” The Master practically skipped into the room. He wrapped an arm around Ianto’s tense shoulders and patted his chest, “Jack, Ianto here has a present for you!”

 

Former Time Agent Jack glared at the Master because he doubted it was really from Ianto. “I don’t want it,” he directed at Saxon.

 

“HM! Well, too bad.” The Master smiled. “UP TOP BOYS!” The Master smiled jovially and clapped his hands.

 

**Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks.**

 

They were on the deck of the Valiant. All prisoners were; Martha’s family, the Doctor in his wheel chair, Jack bound in chains right to the tarmac. And Ianto, walking freely next to the Master.

 

“Today!” the Master shouted above the wind, “we see just how far humans will go for love! It will be a learning experience for all!”

 

Eyes narrowing, Jack tried to discern how the Master would twist their souls now.

 

“This, is Ianto Jones.” His hand moved to the named man’s shoulder, “I’m sure you all know him by now! He’s been wandering about while you lot!” he pointed to the other prisoners, “have been held rather captive. I’m sure you’re all jealous, I know, I know.” He raised his hands, making placating gestures to calm people. “Now, Ianto, explain your gift to its recipient.” His hand waved out to Jack.

 

Ianto’s calm eyes met Jack’s. “You are not to be harmed in any way, shape, or form by the Master or at his orders for as long as your existence remains here.”

 

“Ianto,” Jack breathed, because that was a pricey gift. “What are you doing?”

 

Ianto ran over to him in desperation. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. This is the only way to undo what’s happened.”

 

A realization rolled over Jack, with the mirthful eyes of the Master on their forms and the Doctor’s sad, knowing eyes. “Are you going to kill”— _me? No…_ —“You’re going to kill yourself…” Calm. Collected. Disbelieving.

 

“Ianto, don’t. I don’t want this. How is this going to undo anything? Ianto,” Jack tried to free himself but to no avail. “Ianto,” he tipped his head forward, capturing the Welshman’s eyes in his own, “don’t. I don’t want this.”

 

“And I don’t want _these_ ,” he held up a scabbed arm of ‘JACK’s. He placed his hands on either side of Jack’s face as tears welled. “I don’t want the drugs or the scars or the knowledge that you’d rather I’d’ve died quickly like Gwen, Tosh, or Owen, than having to watch me fall turn into this. Whatever I am now, neither of us want it.”

 

“Ianto,” Jack begged, his head came to rest against Ianto’s. “I’d rather have you tweaked out and cut up than ice cold and unmoving. Hell, I’d even take your ‘Cheeto’ ramblings over the silence of that room.” Ianto laughed brokenly and Jack continued, tears that welled at some point beginning to fall. “Even when you just slept on that crappy floor, I’d rather that because you hadn’t left me alone.”

 

“You’ll never be alone, Jack.” Ianto pulled back and pressed his lips quickly and harshly to Jack’s. Jack tried to follow as Ianto pulled away, displaying a tear stained smile.  “When I see you next, ask me out on a date; I’d like that. Do it all proper.”

 

“Fine,” Jack replied hastily. “You want a date, you got it, but _please_ don’t leave me.”

 

“I know you get lonely,” Ianto kissed him again. “But I’ll be back.” He wiped Jack’s tears away with hands shaking from fear, withdrawal, and nerves.

 

“But you _won’t_ come back if you _die_!” Jack wrenched his face from Ianto’s grasp.

 

Sadly, “I know.”

 

“Righty-O! Are the ‘good-bye’s done?!” The Master asked cheerfully as he skipped over.

 

Jack turned his glare to the Time Lord, “I will kill you when I get out of here.”

 

“Oooo! I’d like to see you try!” The Master wrapped an arm around Ianto’s shoulders and led him to the edge of the Valiant. Skipping back the Master giggled, “Now, whenever you’re ready, Ianto-me-boy!” He placed a hand on the Doctor’s shoulders and waited patiently.

 

Ianto peered over the edge a moment, and then turned, addressing the congregation. “I’m sorry for being a coward and taking such an easy way out. But… My loyalties are always to the ones I love,” a hand absently caressed his forearm, the ‘JACK’s pulling and twisting. “And I love you, Jack.”

 

Jack strained against the chains and screamed, “Then don’t do this! IANTO!”

 

“Doctor, please remember to inquire about what I asked.”

 

Jack watched as the Doctor nodded solemnly and he was almost repulsed by the fact that the Doctor _knew_ Ianto would so this, knew _beforehand_. And he _wasn’t doing anything about it._

 

Breathlessly, he asked the old Time Lord, “You knew? You knew he was going to do this?!”

 

Ianto’s voice cut through his rage, “Please!” Eyes returned to the Welshman and he begged Jack to listen. “I love you.” He took a step back, “I’ll see you again.” Another step, “I promise, you won’t be alone.” Another, “I’m giving you my life. Even though it scares you to death.” And another…

 

And Ianto Jones was gone.

 

Jack couldn’t hear anymore, he just felt himself yelling, felt the chains biting into his skin, sensing the Master making some comment about silly, stupid humans. He didn’t care about the people around him, he wanted to kill and be killed over and over. The dark embrace of an oblivion that would never stay or happen… because Ianto took that option with him.

 

The Master probably knew this. More than probably; defiantly. The Master wouldn’t have made such a ‘merciful’ deal if it was anything but torturous.

 

Jack felt himself scream again, promising the Master’s death between shouts for Ianto. And he screamed until coughing overcame him and there was blood on the tarmac from his raw throat.

 

**Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks. Fourty-two Weeks.**

 

Jack stared at the ceiling now, the floor reminded him of Ianto. Every tile had ‘Ianto’ written on it in small drops of Welsh blood.

 

He had an armed guard again, an armed guard that looked up at every squeal of the door. The squeal that drew the guard’s attention now preceded Tish, Martha’s sister, and a food tray. They used to just set it in front of him and place a knife in his teeth, the Master telling him he had to cut his way out of the chains to eat. Then Ianto started feeding him.

 

Now Tish did that. For two days she had taken this job.

 

“Hello, Jack,” she murmured silently.

 

He didn’t have the drive to reply. He knew he should, but all thirst for life fell off the side of the Valiant two days ago and he wasn’t sure when it’d return. “He was so young. Young and full of life.”

 

Tish looked at him surprised and Jack was surprised, too. He didn’t want to talk. She swallowed thickly and moved on, “It’s time to eat.”

 

“’M not hungry.”

 

“I’m sure the Mas—Saxon would love to see you starve but…”

 

Jack waited; knowing what was coming but wishing she’d just remain quiet.

 

“He’d want you to eat.”

 

“DON’T YOU FUCKING TALK ABOUT HIM!”

 

Jack whipped his head to the side, tears already dripping to the floor. “Sorry, sorry,” he murmured brokenly.

 

“It’s okay,” Tish gave him a small smile. “I… didn’t really know him, but what I did know was nice and, well… I once knew a Doctor named Rhys. He frequented a pub called the Rift but he was a really nice, cheery man. Loved a drink called Paradox.” She stopped talking and moved to catch Jack’s eyes again.

 

“Did you hear what I said?”

 

Jack’s look said, ‘No.’

 

“I said, and you better listen because I’m not repeating it again, ‘I once knew a Doctor named Rhys. He frequented a pub called the Rift but he was a really nice, cheery man. Loved a drink called Paradox’.” Her eyes begged him to figure out the real meaning behind that little tidbit of information.

 

Confusion. Recognition. Acceptance. Joviality. Jack tipped his head back and laughed like she just said the funniest thing in the whole universe and all the other universes put together, with Heaven and Hell thrown in for extra flavor.

 

“OI! Don’t make me shoot you! The Master may notta order it, but if I need to!” The guard threatened but it seemed nothing could get Jack out of his dopamine surge.

 

It almost scared Tish to see how much life was suddenly in those blue eyes when they looked so broken and hopeless before. “Thanks, Tish, and if you ever see that Doctor again, tell him thanks.”

 

“Oh, don’t thank me, a little birdy told Doctor Rhys about that pub.”

 

The light in his eyes dulled slightly and Tish almost thought she’d made a mistake but then Jack said, “Gotta find that birdy.”

 

Tish smiled. And when she left she saw such defiance that it even gave her strength.

 

**The End**


End file.
